Sherlock in the Snow
by RougeaufSherlock
Summary: In over three layers of clothing beneath that big trench coat, a heavily-dressed Sherlock is eager for a day in the snow. Total fluff.


It had been a magnificent night, John thought as he awoke to the cold air in the room. Whistling wind, freezing temperatures, clouds gathering in the sky. It only followed that John should rip off Sherlock's clothes and push him onto the mattress so they could exchange heat and sparks of flame beneath the white covers.

He watched Sherlock sleep until a thick, sharp gust of wind shook the bedroom window and woke him. John loved how disoriented Sherlock was in the mornings especially when woken by surprise. John snuggled in closer and pulled the duvet over their heads so they there were covered from head to toe in fabric and skin.

"It's cold," said John.

Sherlock popped a grin. "Sounds like it's snowing."

_Snow._

John's season was summer. Bright light and orange heat. Sunbathing and swimming pools. But Sherlock… Sherlock's season was winter. Grey overcast skies and crystalline white ground. Footprints to track in the snow and cozy sweaters leaving their fibers about. Hot drinks by the fireplace, whisky hot on the breath and tangy on the lips. That was Sherlock.

And a winter Sherlock was a fluffy Sherlock. He dressed in at least three layers of clothing that day, and that was all underneath his coat. His gloves changed from leather to wool and his scarf was thicker and wrapped more tightly around his neck.

And a dressed for winter Sherlock was an eager Sherlock. He bounced around in the den for ten wholes minutes as John fixed the hot cocoa and poured it into the thermos.

By the time he was finished, Sherlock was holding the door open for him. "Come on, come on!" he said. "Before the ground is too cluttered with footprints." And so they went off to the park.

Lucky for Sherlock, this, the first snow of the season, happened in the middle of the week while many people were at work. They practically had the park to themselves, and they found a little patch beneath the skeleton of a tree to set their thermos and belongings. The breeze died down considerably from the morning, and now the big puffy snowflakes trickled straight to the ground. Snow piled up on the branches of the scattered trees, on the benches, on the playground. It covered the park in diamond embedded blanket.

John picked up a handful. It fell through his fingers and left a little behind to melt on the glove. Not packing snow. No good for snowballs or snowmen, but a beautiful snow no less. He then turned his gaze to Sherlock, who was staring out into it all, staring up at the sky to watch the flakes tumble down, his eyes glossed over, his mouth propped slightly open, completely mesmerized.

Sherlock in many ways was really just a big child, and there is such a simple happiness in bringing a child to joy. Watching Sherlock kindled a soft heat within John that spread throughout his entire body like smooth wildfire.

"Happy?" asked John, moving in to link his arm with Sherlock's.

Sherlock's focus was unwavering. "I'm never happy." But he didn't seem in-tune with his words.

John tugged him closer, snapping his focus from the snowy sky. "Yes you are."

Sherlock shot him a cheeky smile and playfully pushed him away, causing John to stumble back a few steps. Sherlock was grinning at him when he caught his balance, and John would have none of that. Naturally, he retaliated how anyone would on the first day of snow. He tackled Sherlock to the ground.

The snow was at least a foot deep, and they fell together with a "floomph!" on their sides.

Sherlock pushed John onto his back, and John felt the icy sting on the sides his face as he was buried into the cold. He picked up a hill of snow in each hand to return the favor, smooshing each hand onto Sherlock's red cheeks, feeling the jab of his cheekbones on his palms.

Sherlock shook his head, shaking it off. His playful expression turned _ravenous, _and he thrust John harder into the ground by his shoulders brushing his teeth on the lobe of his ear.

"Playing dirty are we?"

He sunk his teeth tenderly into the patch of neck just below John's ear and pressed his warm tongue into it. John shivered, and he knew it wasn't from the temperature around them. He pushed Sherlock up and over so that he was on top.

"This is indecent," he said.

Sherlock reached for John's lips and managed to steal a taste. "Who cares about decency?"

"It's the middle of the day!" said John. "And we're in the middle of a public park."

"Yes, and you love the danger, don't you, Captain?"

To this, John had nothing to say. Instead, he ignored growing feeling in his trousers and rolled from Sherlock onto his knees, burying those gloved hands deep into the snow. Sherlock didn't have time to escape before waves of snow sprayed him in thin layers of white, making him a snow-covered Sherlock.

And a snow-covered Sherlock was a playful Sherlock. A snow-covered Sherlock wanted to retaliate, so he managed to escape, and with a swipe of his leg, kicked a load of snow onto John.

Now it was war.

John chased Sherlock through the park, sometimes kicking snow at him, sometimes throwing it when he could. He liked watching it splat on his coat and drip from those big bouncy curls.

Sometimes Sherlock chased John. Sometimes Sherlock would disappear and John would get buried in a mound of snow if he were standing under the right tree.

They were at that game of Cat and Mouse for a good portion of the afternoon, but by the end of it all, John just wanted to hold Sherlock close and run his fingers through his cold mop of hair. And he got his wish when they settled under the tree and John poured him a mug of cocoa which they shared. John leaned back on the tree, and Sherlock into John. Their clothes were soaked and goosebumps emerged on the skin beneath, but they'd worry about it later. John brushed some loose flakes from Sherlock's head and wove his fingers through the curls.

"I assume it will be a wet snow tomorrow," said Sherlock, sipping on the cocoa. "Let's build an igloo."

John laughed and kissed him. "We can crawl inside and see how fast we can melt it down."

"What about _decency_?" asked Sherlock, crinkling his nose and handing the mug to John.

John sniffed the steam and savored the heat, "Who cares about decency?" he joked.

A smile unfurled over Sherlock's face, and he wiggled more closely into John, imagining how delicious it would be to have him in a public park with cold droplets of water dripping over their hot naked skin.

A hopeful Sherlock was a happy Sherlock. And a happy Sherlock fell asleep in John's lap. And to John, a sleeping Sherlock meant that his mop of hair could be used as a pillow, so he held him more tightly and rested his head. They spent the remainder of the afternoon beneath snow and clouds, a little breeze and wet clothes, sleeping, dreaming of snowmen and igloos, cocoa and blankets, and as always, dreaming of each other.


End file.
